The Shearing Shed – Part 2: Lanolin

"Yes," said Callum. "Please."

The kiss was gentle, and slightly clumsy, and tasted of beer and dust. Ben's hand came up to Callum's jaw as if he were calming a nervous animal. Callum laughed into his mouth, leaned in, and kissed him back harder.

When they parted the sun was a line of orange over the Alps. Down in the yard somebody was already setting up the barbecue.

"I'm not good at this," Ben said.

"You're doing fine."

"I haven't done it in a while."

"Neither have I." Callum smiled, a bit wobbly. "We'll practise."

The last day of shearing ended with a long outdoor feast, tables set under the gum trees, lamb on the coals, children running between the benches. Callum sat beside Ben, thighs touching under the table, nobody the wiser. When the shearers began a loud, tuneless sing-song, Ben leaned over and whispered, "I have a quiet room. If you want."

"Very much."

They slipped away across the dark paddock, hand in hand, to the small cottage at the edge of the home field. Inside it was warm and plain, with a wooden bed, wool blankets and a window full of stars. Ben turned, nervous in the lamplight.

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure." Callum took off Ben's hat and set it on the chair. "Are you?"

"I have been sure since you wore those boots."

They undressed slowly, laughing at buckles and stiff jeans. Ben was strong and careful. Callum was bold and affectionate. Under the wool blankets the cold night disappeared, and they learned each other gently and thoroughly, with soft laughter and murmured names while a sheepdog sighed in the porch.

In the morning, sun streamed across the floor. Ben made tea and stood in the doorway, grinning like a boy.

"My contract ends in six weeks," said Callum.

"The station always needs a vet." Ben handed him a mug. "Full-time. If you wanted."

Callum thought about the city, the flat, the traffic, the quiet verandah. "I'll need better boots," he said.

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